The Redeemers: Manifest Destiny
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: Death does not always mean the end. From the transactions of an otherworldly enterprise and necromantic magic Kuroi Mato is given a second chance at life on Azeroth. With the aid of her owner, Ron, and the Knights of the Ebon Blade, she struggles to find her place in a world defined by war. /A retelling of the BRS mythos set in WoW, PART 1/
1. Before Record: Goodbye

**Disclaimer:** All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.

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**Before Record: Goodbye**

Death was coming for Mato, and she could feel in her bones the life slowly slipping away.

She kept repeating to herself it would come any minute now, any minute and she would be claimed by eternal darkness. She waited as patiently as she could, counting the number of bumps on the ceiling, but 'any minute now' became fifteen minutes and fifteen minutes became an hour and so forth until the night passed and morning waned into afternoon.

Perhaps it wasn't her time yet. She'd heard of people lasting for several days, weeks even, before they succumbed to their injuries. Some were lucky to pull through their agony and undergo physical therapy until they were deemed fit to go home and continue their lives, be it in wheelchairs, crutches, or on their own two feet.

Mato wondered which of these categories she would fit in.

Not for the first time, she wondered if it was worth thinking about at all.

She sighed, listened to the steady beep of the heart monitor. She didn't tell her parents this, nor did she tell Yuu or Yomi or Saya-chan-sensei, but everything hurt. It hurt to breathe and it hurt to move, but with broken bones and internal bleeding that was a definite guarantee. She didn't want them to worry, didn't want to upset them anymore than when they found out what had happened to her at the park. When asked how she felt she would smile and say she was doing fine, this was nothing compared to spraining an ankle during basketball practice or tripping over her feet at the track and slamming to the ground like a tree felled by a lumberjack's axe.

She didn't like to lie, but until now Mato had never experienced such excruciating pain. She had never thought pain could be this bad, never imagined she would be a victim of someone's hate, anger, and jealousy. And for what? All because she was picked to be point guard of the school's varsity basketball team over Yaritou Erima.

She wished Saya-chan-sensei was here, but it was a school day and the older woman had her job to do. If she were, Mato would tell her what she told everyone else: she did not blame Yaritou-san for what she did nor was she angry at her. If there was one thing she could change, it would be to decline the position offered to her. Yaritou-san was just as good if not a better player than her and she could spur the team into action faster than the crack of the proverbial whip.

Yaritou-san…where was she now? Was she alright? Mato had been told she had been taken into custody and charged as an adult, but she couldn't be certain whether or not those words rang true; the past few days had flown by as she dipped in and out of consciousness.

What was going to happen to her? Yaritou-san was a moody girl—always grumbling and sarcastic and far too blunt—but she was not one to work herself to the extreme unless it was of incredible import. When Yuu, being the manager of the team, had informed everyone their coach was looking candidates to fill the position for the year's starting line-up, all that drive and energy went straight into keeping her grades up and her game-play polished smooth. With the way she was going, Mato was absolutely certain she would be picked.

Or so she had thought. Yaritou-san was sure to have thought the same, too, because the shock on her face as the coach made her decision looked as though it would pop out of the silver screen and walk away.

Mato recalled she had been at a loss of words, working her vocals in a vain attempt to speak. Then she nodded her head, bowed, and thanked her coach for selecting her to lead their team. She promised she would try her very hardest and not let them down.

She couldn't remember if she had apologized to Yaritou-san. She hoped she did. The doctor did say she had hit her head pretty hard.

Mato closed her eyes. Behind them was a wall of black. What happened after a person died? Was there a heaven? Was there a hell? Was there a purgatory for those who did both good and bad in their lives? Would there be anything waiting for her beyond the mortal plane? These were questions she often speculated upon, sometimes in the dead of night as her mind wandered while she waited for sleep. They were questions she wanted answers for, but she knew deep down with a terrible despair that they could not.

The heart monitor slightly picked up speed.

_I don't want to die. Not yet. I'm too young to die. I have my whole life ahead of me._ Besides, who would badger Hiro in the morning to wake up and get ready for school? Who was going to meet Yomi at the intersection and walk to the Kibata station? _It can't end like this. Where will I go? What will happen to me? I don't want to leave them_ _behind._ Sad and aching and asking why, why her, why did she have to die?_ Not like this._

_I have to live._

_Live._

"I…want…to live…."

* * *

The next day, Kuroi Mato died.

Her story, however, had only just begun.


	2. Proof of Purchase: Product 01451

**Disclaimer:** All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.

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**Proof of Purchase: Product #01451**

Ron sat in the waiting room, skimming through star charts and interdimensional wavelength readings on his etherscope.

Ron was not his real name. His real name was long and extremely difficult to pronounce. Ron was the name he had been given when he made his purchase. The geminite who dealt with him had his anima and animus electrographs – or AA prints, for short – decrypted, unscrambled, and translated by the Ciphers until they had produced a list of names for his choosing. The Ciphers operated at an omniscient, omnipresent level, and Ron wanted a key that would be easy for both him and his product to remember. A key would grant him access to resource caches that were otherwise restricted to Salesclerks and their employees such as the Archive or the Chop Shop, something he was looking forward to doing once the manifest transfer was complete.

He backtracked at that train of thought. Not if it was complete. If _they_ succeeded, and not every transfer was successful. Even if the soul-to-body integration was complete there would be the matter of memory acquisition, image retention, and psychological therapy. There was also the probability of putting up a suicide watch if things took a turn for the worse. Suicide was the number one cause of death among the Black Shooter products, followed by murder and diseases.

Humans were so fallible, so fragile, but when used properly they were a force to be reckoned with. Among the tangled gossip he had recovered the Black Shooters were capable of bending time and space, drawing their strength from the Void to unleash their full might upon their foes. And the Void was filled with countless dangers, not counting rival businesses looking to usurp the Salesclerks from their seat as the number one soul reclamation empire.

Ron suppressed a shudder. Those who did not complete the trek through the Void were either forced to defend the Threshold or killed in the endless onslaught. Not that its supply of War Shooters was running low, there were plenty to go around for the Salesclerks, spirit healers, border wardens, and the void knights. But if the Black Shooters couldn't finish their manifest or return to the safety of the Threshold? It was fight or die.

Ron wanted to do neither, not when he spent all but a few nethershards on that girl. The "recent addition", as the geminites were fond of calling her, but time was rarely prevalent in the Threshold. There was a reason why her price was still so damn high, and it was that reason which compelled him to purchase her and perform core recovery once his waivers were signed.

A subsonic chime resonated from the speakers in the wall, indicating the arrival of a customer. Its form materialized and solidified into a lanky, whip-thin male. His wild blonde hair fell in front of narrow amber eyes. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of an oversized black pea coat. His long legs carried him to the geminite working away on its terminal at the reception desk. Watching the man engage in conversation with the front half of the alien, recognition clicked into Ron's nexus like the melodic pluck of a guitar string.

He closed out of the etherscope's programs and stowed it away in one trenchcoat pocket. He stretched his own legs out and crossed his arms behind his head, waiting.

It didn't take long. The man exchanged AA prints with the receptionist and linked into the terminal to receive his ticket. He disconnected and sulked toward the empty seat next to Ron.

"Back again for another go, eh, Nico?" said Ron.

"I shoulda never had signed up during the inter-universe alignment," the man complained, dropping down into the chair. He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, which earned him a few exasperated glances. "Didn't think it'd be so busy during the discount sale."

"It's busy whether or not there is a sale going on. Every day more and more souls are caught and brought into the animaria, and the Board of Directors evaluates the souls and set the prices depending on their condition. The higher they are the more tempting it is to make customers bringing in the competition's revenue think twice and come to us."

"I hear War Shooters are very expensive. Sixty voidrocks. You know how many nethershards it takes to make that amount? Even the used goods are worth more than the promos." The promos, as Ron recalled, being souls that were unveiled to the public for the first time after evaluation. Sometimes they were put on display at the private Auction Block for the denizens of the High Tier to stake their claim and attempt to outbid each other. Ron saw it as a means of outsourcing Grade-A merchandise and outfitting feuding firms in their never-ending expansion wars, limiting the rest of the Middle Tier to house brands and, as Nico so bluntly put it, used goods.

Ron shrugged. "Wouldn't matter to the pennies; even used goods have their value." The Low Tier was not permitted registration because it was primarily consisted of human souls that did not pass their evaluation and let go or were deemed unfit to be placed on the market. Men, women, and children, regardless of whom and what they were in life, consisted of seventy percent of Threshold's overall population, working at minimum wage that barely got them through the week. Sometimes it was a matter of life and death; Scroungers were a constant source of woe and aggravation, fighting the penniless and amongst each other for living small regardless of size. Their squabbles caused property damages that hit the people hard and unwanted pain that hit them harder, and they rebuilt from those remains only for them to be destroyed again. The cycle repeated itself, and all the while the tax lords and civil service of the High Tier waged bets on who would stumble to stagnation first. It made Ron sick with fury.

Nico barked a humorless laugh. "Tell that to the Board of Directors. The pennies aren't their problem, they never were. We have our military, they have their police force. Every day can't be a bad day for the pennies."

"Look who's calling the kettle black."

"You gettin' soft on me, snake? I swear it's like I'm not even talking to you anymore."

"I do what I gotta do. That's just who I am."

"Oh bologna. You don't need merch to make your point. It's all up there in that brain of yores." Nico slumped further down his seat. He jabbed a finger at the air in front of him and slashed diagonally as though it was a sword. A transparent window slid into the fabric of that space, enlarging to a decent size and reconfiguring its resolution in a matter of parsecs. With flicks of his wrist he flipped through the files likes pages from a book, skimming over the articles before moving on. Ron recognized them to be part of the latest sales catalogue.

"The Nests are adamant," said Ron, checking the port at the end of the room. There was still no sign of the Salesclerk. What could he be doing with the product at this moment? "The Rhumbas are in talks with the Pits and the Vipers about pushing south against Dead Man's Pass" which was a stretch of land designated as a safe zone for either group to use, constantly under the observant eyes of imported Black Shooters "but the Nests believe they're mobilizing for a take-over. They're drafting every able-bodied person scattered throughout the planes to return immediately."

"So why bother coming here? You have membership credentials. You can just take a Shooter from the barracks and have her fight for you." Nico ceased his ministrations and glanced askance at the man. "Or are you so gutless to run away and forsake your people in the wake of battle?"

"I'm no coward," said Ron, a little more firmly than he intended, "but I know when to fight. There's no point in expanding anymore when there are enough resources to go around for everyone. The Nest, the Rhumbas, the Pits and Vipers, they have everything they need. It doesn't matter to me if they don't get along; spilling data for the sake of economic growth is unwarranted."

"Yeah, well, the Threshold don't work that way. It's been that way for many millennia and it'll stay that way for many millennia more." Nico rolled his shoulders and limbered his neck until he heard a satisfying crack. "But if going AWOL's yer game then I ain't stoppin' ya. Snake business is no business for a hiveborn native like me."

"Must be the same over there at the March."

"Just a lot of political hubbub and shit, like who's going to inherit the throne next cycle. Not like I ever follow it. Just goes in one ear and out the other."

"I see." It made sense when one took into context how kinband territories functioned. Kinbands were grouped together under one plane and cordoned off the surrounding planes architecturally or electronically, constantly maintained depending on the chronometry used. All kinbands, like Ron's den and Nico's clutch, resolved their issues without the benefits of outside aid. Suggesting such an idea was preposterous.

And really, what help could he give him? Every soul knew their place in the Threshold. They were always reminded of it when the pennies saw the Mids with their Black Shooters, the Mids saw the bigwigs flanked by their War Shooters, and the bigwigs saw the lower tiers and turned up their noses with condescending leers. It was better to mind his manners and focus on what was most important to him. Like what the hell was taking that damn geminite so long.

Ron unfolded his hands and laid them on his knees. He leaned toward Nico, taking in the catalogue files. "See anyone you like?"

"Not really. It's pretty much the same thing: adolescent girls and young adults who lived and died well before their time. Most of 'em are just kids with literally no combat experience to back up their value. How does the Board expect us to make them into soldiers if the majority can't get a grip? We're customers not friggin' babysitters."

"You can always give her a flush, but that's a hundred voidrocks more than what'd you usually pay overall." A flush required a healer to apply a viral injection to completely wipe the Black Shooter's interface—her personality, her memories, her sense of reality, components that pieced together one's identity. The result would leave her devoid of emotion and expression, operating solely on the commands of her owner and her instincts without the burdens brought on by free will. This was the reason why this type of Shooter was called a blank, why they were so highly coveted by the rich and the kinbands. Bereft of a conscience to hold them back, they fought their foes with a cold, merciless calculation a Black Shooter with morals could not. Or so Ron had been told; come to think of it, he had never come across a Shooter that functioned with her ego intact.

Nico grunted and flipped to the next file. "I dunno, maybe, but first I wanna narrow my choices down. Probably pit 'em in the Theater and see how they do. Wouldn't want to buy someone and she turns out to be defective."

"It can't be helped. They don't expect there to be an afterlife when they die." And when they learned why they had been brought back and what they had been reduced to, they almost never lived past a full week. Their bodies would be gone but their soul would live on, more than likely to be caught by some company's fishermen and placed in animaria to be evaluated once again. Only there would be a mark on their record and it reflected on the deciding process. If they were lucky they would be released to the market at a lower price under clearance, but if they weren't…

Ron hoped his anger did not show when Nico looked at him and said, "That's why it's our job to drill some sense. You don't want a defective Black Shooter, do ya?"

"Of course not, but it's almost always inevitable when they fully grasp the ramifications that come with their manifest. They don't know what they're getting into so you have to take things a step at a time. Starting with core recovery and stabilization—"

"Core recovery and stabilization," Nico echoed sardonically. "Females have to make things more difficult. The Chop Shop didn't have this much trouble when the Board announced the Shooter prototypes."

"That's because the prototypes were the souls of human males."

"And look how that turned out."

"Would you rather buy a soul that's stagnant rather than one that's rational? The Board had good reason to cancel production."

"Still think they should give it another go. What's the worst that can happen? So they went stagnate, s'not like every human male soul is gonna go stir-crazy and try an' infect everyone. Say the choppers managed to flush and contain them; found a way to convert stagnation into a power source. The Threshold would make a killing off them instead of just salvaging and recycling—"

"It won't fly," said Ron.

"I'm not finished—"

"I don't want to hear it." He turned away from the catalogue, frowning with disapproval. "I know what they do. Salvaging, recycling, they don't need any explaining. Not when their actions speak louder than words." _So let's talk about something else,_ his tone implied, _or I'll beat the void out of you so bad you'll have to restabilize your form._

Nico took the hint. "Geez, fine, don't overheat your firewalls." He cursed under his breath and returned to surfing the catalogue.

For a while they sat in silence. Salesclerks called out ticket numbers and customers followed them out the lobby. The geminite at the reception desk was replaced with a different employee, one side typing away at its terminal and the other sorting through shipping portals on the Cipher. Soft binaural music played in the background.

Ron was lost in his own thoughts, deciding whether or not he should get up and let the receptionist know he wasn't going to wait any longer and (demand) ask to see his Salesclerk right away (and right now). Just as he was about to put this into motion, Nico spoke: "So who'd you get?"

"Eh?"

"We both know you didn't come here to buy some extra firepower for the fight. Who'd you buy and where are you going?"

"I'm bound to the consumer privacy protocol. I can't tell you."

"Not unless you're speaking to a fellow customer."

"Wha—?" Ron snapped his jaw shut. Now he was starting to sound plain stupid, so he started again. "You're leaving the March? Why?"

Nico shrugged. "Does it really matter? You have your reasons and I have mine. There are countless dimensions and even more countless worlds out there. I need at least some idea of where I'd like to go before I make my purchase, and…well, we have to adapt to whoever we choose. Part of the variable empathic system, you know." It was how the customer and the Black Shooter worked: accessing the product's memories, which were a part of the interface, allowed the former to reconfigure its form into an arsenal of offensive and defensive programs and protocols. "So…out of a million souls who did you choose?"

Normally Ron would not divulge confidential information, but he and Nico went back, way back, and they had confided a variety of details that, had their old kinband leaders not crossed over, would have brought swift permanent death on their heads. Times were different and things, people, places, changed. Ron straightened in his seat and said, "She's a kid, hails from a planet called Earth in a universe where no other sentient life but humanity exists. She lived in the country of Japan and six out of seven days went to school with a couple girls she met in her classes. In her first year she took interest in the sport of basketball and joined a club affiliated with it. Her life was pretty simple at that point until she was in her second year when the coach chose her over someone else, an equally talented basketball player, to be the team's point guard. This news angered the other girl so much that a few days later, before the team played their first game of the season, she confronted the kid at the local park and pushed her down a flight of steps."

He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the video the Salesclerk played for him when he first asked about her. She was sixteen years old when she died. _Sixteen_. In kinbands age was not defined by time but by the number of accomplishments one achieved, and numbers did not matter unless it concerned business, statistics, and the amount of enemies on the battlefield. To him sixteen was but a _grain of sand_. This girl, the recent addition, was barely a _hatchling_…and from what he learned reading Archive caches regarding Terran cultures, some countries considered sixteen to be the age of _adulthood_, the age of _consent_, of driving vehicles and entering the workforce and engaging in sexual activity and…

A hatchling that died young did not live life at all. A hatchling that died young was deemed weak, a hindrance to the kinband, a punishment handed down by the Mad God of Forked Tongues as a reminder that weakness should never be sired, never harbored, and never protected.

"What happened?" Nico asked. "She die right away?"

Ron opened his eyes and shook his head. "No. She held on for five days. Her body took too much damage and lost too much blood." He paused, then added, "At least she died in her sleep." So she didn't have to be in pain anymore.

"Man," breathed Nico, "the shit people do when they're pissed, and that won't be the last death that'll occur over trivial matters."

"No. It's why Earth—any Earth in any shape or form across the multiverse—is so popular among the empires. We see them as nothing more than animals that live and fuck and die and fuck some more because there are just _so many humans_, but as long as they keep replenishing their numbers and don't destroy themselves in the process they're ripe for the picking. As far as I'm aware, the Threshold is the only empire that exclusively reclaims and repurposes human souls. Actually," now that he thought about it, "I can't remember the last time I saw someone with a non-human Black Shooter." Had it really been that long ago? "Gods be damned, how long has it been since they stopped the assembly lines?"

Nico shrugged. "Beats me, I stopped keeping tracking o' time, well, a long time ago. Nobody really keeps close track of it anymore."

"Except the mortals."

"Aight, except the mortals." Nico's finger hovered above the file, ready to move on to the next, only to pause and ask, "What was that kid's name?"

"Her name? Uh," Ron accessed a window in the same motion that Nico brought the catalogue form, and opened the receipt. He zoomed in to get a better look at the print and scanned the information. "Her name's…Mato. Kuroi Mato."

Now it was Nico's turn to look over Ron's shoulder. His eyes bulged at the price. "You paid _that much_? And she wasn't on clearance?"

"The reason she isn't is because of her combat record. According to her sales history, several potential buyers ran her through the Theater against its virtual intelligences. As you can see here" and he pulled up and opened the corresponding folders, downloaded charts and video clips "each buyer was accompanied with a secondary to establish a temporary link with her through the variable empathic system. Although their designs varied based on the customer's interface, her choice of weapons were almost always a Terran katana or a portable particle cannon. Her defensive protocols" or the gear she wore upon establishing the link "reflected the agility she possessed in her previous life…and she was fast. When she followed up on the customer's command her attacks hit hard, and she absorbed blows that would have otherwise kicked the customer from the system and force her into shutdown. I would be lying if I said they weren't surprised. I was, too, when I first reviewed her profile. An ordinary soul like her shouldn't be able to draw that much energy from the Void."

Ron sighed. "And that was the problem: she could wield so much power but she couldn't control it. She didn't have any military experience beside the primal executive order—the fight or flight response—to contain it, and more often than not that energy would overload and blow up in her face. That each trial she ran under a different customer she was heavily intoxicated with ego suppressants didn't help either. If she couldn't self-regulate those energies under the influence, imagine what it would be like if she were flushed."

"The customers couldn't risk it," Nico concluded.

Ron nodded. "The Board didn't want to get involved in any legal trouble if for some reason she compromised the system and killed the customer. Even with a protection warranty they could be sued for product negligence." His face hardened. "There were talks of purifying her soul and letting her ascend to heaven. Some of the Salesclerks argued releasing her would mean permanently losing any chance of studying her. In the end, it was Supervisor Ouru who convinced the Board to give her one more try. They relocated her tank to limited specials and slapped that fat price you see there on her."He pressed his lips together. "I got lucky. I bought her just before her sale expired." And if he had come any later…he closed out of all the programs with an air of methodical emptiness.

Nico sat and stared at the catalogue, digesting this slew of information. "If those customers couldn't control her I/O, what makes you think you can? With that much power she should've been relocated to the Block and made into a War Shooter…."

"No one knows how she can generate it without becoming assimilated. The Board thinks it may have to do with the final moments of her life. She didn't want to die so she fought as much as she could to stay alive." Mortals feared death above all personal matters, especially to an isolated species like humans. Mato's Terran history indicated there was only one god, the God, who created mankind in His image, but there were so many conflicting arguments it gave Ron logic errors. His kinband had no problems dictating their deities' creation narratives; why humans couldn't settle on one was beyond him. "As to how I'll control her I/O…the kinband has a strict fitness regime that focuses heavily on physical fitness and improving mental faculties. I'll start off easy and work my way up to the more rigorous exercises."

"Your 'easiest' exercises would probably turn her into a vegetable."

"If we were to remain in the Threshold. The manifest will provide Mato with the energy to consolidate her soul with the vessel to complete the integration process."

Nico quirked an eyebrow. "That's not how soul-to-body integration works. Manifested souls don't need vessels to form their body." They could just condense the Void energy into a shell that would contain and protect their souls from being destroyed. Why drag it out by adding another variable, a variable that would render the soul physically and mentally weaker than a body formatted by the Void?

"Not where we're going. They're going through great lengths to secure the entry point so nothing—and no one—can interfere with the formatting."

"Where are you going to manifest?"

Ron pressed his hands together, and when he spread them apart he revealed a holographic orb the size of his etherscope. It was a habitable planet surrounded by three landmasses; a massive scar carved a jagged smile across the eastern and western continents. Smack dab in the middle of the seas a whirlpool spun ominously. The mere sight of it sent a queasy ripple through his core. "This is Azeroth. It was featured in the Threshold's travelogue during the last inter-universal alignment as a popular destination for first-time customers. And this," he tapped on the northernmost region of the eastern continent and zoomed in on a gothic fortress floating high above the ruins of what were once towns, "is where Mato and I will be manifesting: Acherus, the Ebon Hold."

At that moment a chime echoed, and a conjoined form materialized in front of the lobby port. It wore two matching sets of flamboyantly rainbow-colored ties and suits that hurt to look at and fuzzy skullcaps atop their flat horned heads. The twin facing the seated customers had a rugged face framed by sideburns and a wild patch of hair on its chin. It cleared its throat and loosened the tie with deft movements of its three-fingered hands. "Keyholder Ron?" it said in a high, reedy voice. "Please come with me."

"Finally," Ron muttered. He clapped his hands once and the world of Azeroth disappeared. He rose to his feet. "Well," he said to Nico, "I guess this is goodbye."

Nico snorted. "Hey, I haven't made my decision yet. You don't get to say goodbye. Stick with 'see ya around' or somethin' like that. I won't overstay my welcome for long, anyway." He lifted a hand in farewell. "Go see your girl. I'll see ya around, whenever that is."

Ron smirked. "Yeah. Whenever." He approached the geminite and together they left the lobby. They rematerialized in the hall and started walking, Ron following close behind. "How's she doing?"

"She's doing swell," said the other half of the geminite; this one was clean-shaven and had piercings lined symmetrically around the bridge of its snout. "She just woke up a while ago so that tells me the ego suppressants are beginning to wear off. She should be back to her old self by the time you've adjusted yourself on Azeroth."

"Have the necromancers prepared their defense protocols for integration?" Ron asked. "I get the feeling they're worried something will go wrong."

"Oh it's not the first time they've failed to deliver our customers across the Void," the bearded half said. "Mostly they get cut off from the entry point and are lost to the fighting between the wardens and their enemies. Other times they do make it through…but the product's vessel crashes before the upload's completion and the customer has to return to the market to ask for a full refund."

"Is that what they're called? Death knights?"

"So they say. Call themselves the Knights of the Ebon Blade they do, renegade ghouls who have broken from the iron fist of their former king, Arthas Menethil. At this moment in time they are under the rule of Highlord Darion Mograine, cleansing the Plaguelands their base of operations is located of the stagnation Arthas unleashed years before his downfall…but you already know that, don't you?" The Salesclerk laced its fingers together and leveled Ron with a critical gaze. "You have spoken with the Highlord, have you not, Keyholder?"

"What you already said the Highlord relayed to me," said Ron. "I was also told it's been three years since then, and that Azeroth's been torn asunder by the emergence of a black dragon, presumably from the Maelstrom."

"Oh yes…Deathwing," the geminite nodded sagely. "That one has quite the history. Best you don't get involved. He is the locals' problem, after all."

"The product wouldn't stand a chance, anyway," the other half stated sadly. "Great her power may be—and would be given time and proper discipline—but she's merely a pebble against the storm that is the dragon." His countenance brightened as he added, "You should have her help with purging the taint. The work will be menial but it'll go a long way into asserting some semblance of spiritual self-control."

"That's what I intend to do," said Ron. "She won't be venturing too far from Acherus unless I or Highlord Mograine says so."

"Good! That is what every owner should do. Unfortunately, not everyone is offered the chance to do that. The Void is a very dangerous place to be in, even for our knights and their War Shooters. Ah, here we are, the Waystation! Salutations, gentlemen!" The geminite stopped before an intricately designed port flanked by a pair of guards. They were covered head to toe in bulky armor and equipped with sabers that looked as if they had been forged from the residue of shooting stars. Their dark helms stared blankly at the geminite and presented it curt nods before returning to their unmoving vigil. "Give me a click to input the passcode…confirm user access to retinal, nexus, and core scanners…and there we go! Right this way, Keyholder Ron." They tapped into the now glowing port and reappeared on the other side.

Ron emerged into being looking over his shoulder. "Since when did the market requisition armed guards?"

"They didn't," said the bearded one. "What you saw were prototypes from a new production line: Contained Golem Armaments, or CGA. Recent events have allowed the Board to post them here as their first post-activation assignment. Do not mind them. They are not programmed to engage potential threats…not unless _you_ give them a reason to. Come along."

The Waystation was a large, spacious chamber. Both sides were lined with rows upon rows of stasis pods bathed in a soft yet piercing turquoise light. Peering past the glass revealed human souls, all female, in suspended animation. Cables and tubes protruding from the walls were plugged into the pods, pumping and extracting untold liters of ectoplasm, void, and data. Ron did not doubt they were being injected with copious amounts of ego suppressants and repair nanites. Some of these girls were probably getting their interfaces wiped out right now, and when they awoke they would never know what had been done to them. It was almost criminal robbing them of everything that made them _them_…but Ron was not one to judge so quickly. Perhaps the owners of these girls had reason to delete their interface. Maybe they did not want her original personality, whatever that may be, to be a hindrance on them. It wasn't his place to question their motives, just as he didn't pursue Nico's untold reasons for leaving the March.

He took some comfort knowing that, unlike most of his brothers and sisters in the kinband, his reasons were sincere. But sincerity didn't get a snake anywhere in the Nest, not unless it meant his death.

Ron caught up with the geminite before its bearded half could reprimand him, pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind. They made their way across the chamber (sneaking a glance over his shoulder showed the port was no longer visible to them) toward a stasis pod standing next to another port actively glowing with void energies. A pair of border wardens was position on either side of it.

There were two people whose shadows stretched the length of the room. One was a small girl, her face and body indicating she had lived her childhood but had not yet reached the milestone humans celebrated as their adulthood. Her skin was pale in the glow of the surrounding stasis pods. Long black hair spilled messily over round shoulders and bare breasts and tapered against the jutting protrusions of her hips. Blue eyes peered groggily beneath her lashes, a side effect of the ego suppressants. Ron immediately recognized her as his product, the girl he would help raise in the dangerous, unknown world of Azeroth. A product was known by her identification number but he knew her only as Kuroi Mato, a girl who died before living life to the fullest.

The person next to her was one he had seen in marketing commercials, but Ron was surprised to see the alien outside of posturing before the screen. He was a giant of a creature, towering over Mato like a rook perched on the highest branch of the tallest tree. He appeared to have been carved from stone, for his limbs were square and broad and carried within them a weight of untold power. His eyes drew away from the girl and fixed on Ron, his features moving not with the liquid grace a human's did but shifted like gears churning in a machine: slow, disjointed, revelatory. The movement itself was unnatural but somehow, perhaps because he was a being far removed from the humanoid races the kinbands was comprised of, that made it feel strangely surreal.

Both geminite halves clasped their hands and bowed low before him. "Salutations, Honorable Supervisor," they said simultaneously.

"Salutations, Corphax, Hallus," the alien nodded in way of greeting. "Salutations, Keyholder Ron," he said in an abysmally cavernous voice, his words measured in methodical evenness.

"Salutations, Supervisor Ouru," Ron replied in return. He had not expected to see a member of the Board of Directors to appear in person much less at all. "It is an honor to be graced by your presence. You must excuse me, but I must ask…what brings you here?"

"Your reaction is understandable, Keyholder Ron. The majority of my cycles are spent building and dispensing strategy sets to my colleagues and fellow employees, constantly applying, fixing, and updating them to ensure the Threshold, as an inter-universal enterprise, can stay ahead of its competitors. There is very little time to remove myself from my current applications and perform secondary programs which, I shall admit, are sorely neglected and require frequent antiviral scanning.

"However, a manifest is an event of incredible import. A manifest that is successful is hailed as an opportunity for new beginnings, to bestow honor in the name of kingods, to make proud his heritage by achieving a glorious demise. But a manifest that fails...it is not always considered a bad thing. It may not be what some Keyholders would prefer, but I like to think such an alteration as an obstacle both owner and product must cross in order to reach the next step of their journey" and here he frowned "even if that road must be fraught with the bodies of the broken. A manifest, Keyholder Ron, is not only a means of granting new life; it is about crossing and facing the unknown."

He looked down at Mato, his enormous hand intending to be on her shoulder nearly dwarfing half her body. "Are you prepared to confront the darkness of the Void? Once you are on the other side, you cannot return to the Threshold unless you have a protection warranty to recreate Mato's vessel should something happen to her. You will, however, retain full access to all our resource caches once you email us a confirmation report twenty-four Terran hours—that is, one Terran day— after you've stabilized on Azeroth, for which we will send you a redemption code to activate your membership account. Do you have any questions?"

Ron mulled this over. "I know you cannot tell me who has passed through the Void" for it would be a breach of customer confidentiality "but is it possible for you to tell me how many have succeeded the soul-to-body integration? There must be some Black Shooters among the Knights." It would be nice if there were. If there were Terrans from Mato's sector of the multiverse, she could make friends and not feel alone and out of place. Humans were a social species and thrived in the company of others.

Supervisor Ouru rumbled thoughtfully, "Of the hundreds that have signed on for Azeroth, only three have manifested and survived, given the high mortality rate the Archive has calculated based on data collected by customer service. I am afraid I cannot say what has become of them other than they have been active for little over twenty-six-thousand two-hundred ninety-seven hours" he coughed politely "excuse me—that would amount to three Terran years. Anything else concerning them you will have to ask Highlord Mograine; he will provide the answers."

Three years…that was around the time Arthas Menethil had been overthrown. How long had the Knights of the Ebon Blade operated under the Threshold? "I'll remember that. Are there other people I can consult with regarding Mato's training?"

"There are a few who specifically teach the art of necromancy. I would suggest going to either Thassarian or Koltira Deathweaver as to how you shall proceed. They represent the death knights aligned in the Alliance and the Horde respectively."

"If you'll pardon our intrusion, Honorable Supervisor," chirped Hallus the clean-shaven, "but we think it would be in the product's best interest to speak to Thassarian and only Thassarian. He is a human and is a soldier of the Alliance whereas Koltira, despite his high elven heritage, is a soldier of the Horde. Even after the Lich King's fall both sides are still locked in that rather nasty war and it would not do her any good to be in close quarters with knights who are currently residing in Acherus, especially in the company of orcs and blood elves and those dreadful Forsaken…."

"Their war isn't any of my business," said Ron, "and if any of those kinbands have a problem with that they'll have to answer to me."

"Don't be so offended, boy," said Corphax. "It is merely a precaution. There is much blood and history among all of Azeroth's races. Their crimes are no better than those committed in the name of your Mad God."

"I do recall there being neutrals and non-aligned among the Ebon Blade," Ouru assured the Keyholder. "It would make introducing Mato into Azerothian society a little easier. After all, she is not going to be forced into the Alliance because she is human and it is her obligation to be among her people. That is for her to decide." Even though he knew Ron knew that as a non-flushed product she had to have a say in matters. Not every customer bought a Black Shooter to bend and master to their whim, and if Ron did not allow her to voice her opinion then he would be no better than his kith and kin and the High Tier.

No, he would not be like them. Never again would he conform to their customs. He would be different. He was different. He was himself, he with the long and almost unpronounceable name, a creature who went against the grain.

"Are there any more questions you would like to ask, Keyholder Ron?"

He shook his head. "That will be all, Honorable Supervisor. I've got this." He looked at Mato, who was staring dazedly between him and the geminite. "Is she good to go?"

"All vital signs show she is stable. It will take several Terran hours before the effects of the suppressants fade and she is fully alert again, but that is nothing to worry about. The manifest will tire her even more, so an average sleep cycle will do the trick." After that, her recovery would have to come first before anything else. The idea that Ron was going to be on his own, far from the safety of the Threshold, made his situation all the more daunting. He reminded himself that that was not the case; the Knights would be there to help and the three other Black Shooters too if they could be found. It wasn't as though this was the first time he had to raise and teach a hatchling the basics of Nest life. Surely it wouldn't be too different raising a newly manifested human.

He sure as hell hoped so. "Then I'm ready."

"Very well." Ouru nodded his mighty head and twisted it almost toward the back of his body to look at the border wardens. "Signal the squadrons to sweep the gap. Let the Knights know we are prepared." They replied in affirmatives and uploaded his instructions with a flicker of their concentric eyes.

"You will want to switch to standby mode before you venture forth," said Ouru. "That way you will attract much less attention to yourself and conserve energy whilst you guide Mato to the entry point."

"What's it like out there? In this sector of the Void?"

A deep, worried fracture marred the giant's smooth features. "I will not lie to you, Keyholder: we are holding the defense protocols and firewalls…but just barely. There are beings out there that would make your kinband look like barbarians, creature that would drive the hardiest, cruelest nestling to the height of madness. Azeroth is…a unique planet, you see. It shares a scenario many worlds in the multiverse have felt but have not come to pass. It is filled with stories untold and forgotten, secrets that have yet to be uncovered. It is also marked by the taint of war, overflowing with the blood of the slain—the blood of innocents and the damned—and the tears of those who love, have loved and have lost. Twice the world has been torn asunder, thrice the world has been invaded by malcontents, countless are the battles that have raged within and beyond this world. It is a miracle it has not succumbed to its injuries nor has it been made undone and anew by its creators.

"And yet, in spite of all that has happened, it continues to thrive. It continues to persevere even when night threatens to eclipse the land and swallow the hearts of the brave and fearless whole. It is beaten, bruised, disfigured, maimed…and still it thrives! Still it spins on its axis to welcome a brand new day! It should have been overrun, should have been devoured, but like a newly risen sun it continues to banish the darkness back to whence it came.

He glanced down at the girl again, concern overwriting the contemplative slate that was his default expression. "I cannot say for sure if this is the right world for Kuroi Mato to grow up and experience in. Life for her will never be the same...but it will be a second chance. Many chances, as long as her soul remains intact."

"Honorable Supervisor, your order has been relayed and carried to the fullest extent," said one of the border wardens. "Estimated time before total gap closure is three minutes."

"Good." With a gentle sweep of his arm, Ouru placed Mato into Ron's hands. "It is time, Keyholder. Make haste, for you do not have long."

"I know." Ron opened his HUD and switched from standard mode to standby. A popup window counted down the time before his body would reformat and reconfigure. He took one of Mato's hands into his own and led her toward the glowing port. She followed behind without protest, unaware of the urgency that was required of both owner and product. "We'll make it through. Count on it." _I won't become part of the statistic, and I'll be damned if I...we...do._

He stopped in front of the port and placed his free hand above the access panel. He connected with the system and confirmed the launch query. The light was absorbed into the fabric of reality. It folded in on itself and churned in a spiral pattern as it blossomed outward.

The infinite dark lay ahead, sparkling in the diamond dust of stars young and ancient.

The road to Azeroth was at his feet, plunging into the unknown; and all around it, protected by looming firewalls, were swarms and swarms of Keyholders, void knights, and spirit healers with their Black Shooters and War Shooters, fighting a perpetual war against beings and creatures he had only heard of in stories, things that should not exist save in the hell of one's nightmares.

_And there were so many._

Ron almost wanted to turn back and forget what he saw ever happened. He almost wanted to purge the image from his mind and run a system restore so he wouldn't have to constantly think back on it and recoil in awe and fear and disgust. It wouldn't have mattered where he went with Mato as long as it wasn't _out there_, where a single miscalculation could spell doom or an eternal servitude of battle he did not want to be part of. It would've been worth it.

But that would make him look weak, a coward, and he was far from being either of those two.

So he tugged at Mato to pick up the pace and they pressed into the Void. Once they were through the port flashed and sealed the spatial tear, powering down when it completed its task.

As his body dissolved and shifted, he heard the parting words of the Honorable Supervisor Ouru echo in the corners of his auditory receptors: "May the Grand Architects guide you on your journey, little ones. The world shall be your teacher…." Then it was cut short in a burst of static, and all that remained were the muted sounds of combat raging beyond the protocols.

Ron stood and gazed upon the scarred planet, spinning on its axis like a child's mobile.

He squeezed Mato's hand and took his first step forward.

Their future beckoned.


	3. Record 01: The Manifest

**Disclaimer:** All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.

* * *

**THE REDEEMERS: MANIFEST DESTINY**

* * *

_"Great events often have humble beginnings. Consider this: a quiet pond. Still. The water is like a sheet of glass. Until I throw a stone. Such a small thing—but soon ripples engulf the whole lake!_

_"…Think about it: the smallest voice can change the world. Consider that, friend, the next time you decide to start throwing stones."_

- Lorewalker Cho

* * *

**Record #01: The Manifest**

Thassarian eyed the coffin warily, one hand resting on the pommel of the sword strapped to his side. Next to him, Koltira Deathweaver adjusted his grip on his own runeblade and shifted his feet. They stood together among five other death knights in a semi-circle, standing some ways from the necromancers channeling their magic into the glowing receptacle. In the middle of this scene Darion Mograine had his hand pressed flat against the cover, head bowed as if in deep thought.

"What do you think?" his high elf companion murmured quietly. "Will this one pull through?"

"You and I both know it is far too early to say," Thassarian responded in kind. "We cannot judge her in the space of a few minutes let alone an entire week. It has rarely worked if you recall…the unique circumstances our three successes found themselves in."

"And if something were to go wrong? We can't allow her to live. Look at what happened when we started these procedures—"

"I know what happened; I was there, and after all we've been through I've made sure such an incident never repeats itself, lest we should all pay the price with our lives." He gestured toward Mograine, the necromancers, and the coffin. "This shouldn't be here to begin with, but it was because of our past mistakes it is in place. Giving these girls a body conjured by magic will hinder their true potential" realized through the soul-to-body integration that came with manifestation "but it is for her safety and everyone on Azeroth. Our world has been damaged time and time again. If a Black Shooter were to come through with something from beyond the gap, I don't think it could withstand it."

"We've lived through many an apocalyptic scenario: the Burning Legion, the Scourge, and the Cataclysm. I think we can handle a few stunted souls that have little knowledge of bending reality to their whim."

"It's as you say; they are stunted, but give them time like we did with the others and…."

"Listen up," a voice boomed, putting an end to their conversation. Darion Mograine, Highlord of the Knights of the Ebon Blade, turned to the gathering. "I've received word from the border wardens that the Keyholder and his Black Shooter are now ready to cross over. I want weapons out, eyes up front. You all know what to do should my words fail to pass." They nodded tightly and unsheathed cold, tempered steel. To the necromancers he said, "Open the Death Gate. The second they pass into this realm you close it, do you understand? There is to be no room for error." He focused again on the coffin and after a moment passed he took his hand off the wooden surface and stepped away.

"Same routine as before, Highlord?" Koltira asked as he hefted the runeblade against his shoulder.

"As always," Mograine replied, drawing his broadsword from its sling. "How we proceed from here is determined by our assessment." He cast a piercing blue eye on Thassarian. "The girl's life is in your hands. Make it count…or we shall suffer for it."

Thassarian withheld a sigh. He didn't have to be told twice…but it was better to be reminded than to forget and pay the price because of their ignorance. It would only make sense for a human to help another human make the transition into the new world. Anyone else—and his gaze wandered over his fellow brothers and sisters, some who were similarly human in appearance like elves and dwarves and others who were alien like the draenei and undead—might jeopardize the girl's mental stability.

He wondered what she would be like once she took her first breath. Would she curl up in a ball and wish fervently to wake from a dream that was reality? Would she recoil in disgust and demand they kill her so her soul could ascend to heaven, foolish as it was? Or would she attempt suicide, consumed by the realization that she was not just resurrected but purchased by an otherworldly creature, this body is created by dark magic, these creatures before her intelligent and as truly real as she?

Or would she surprise them and take in this strange world with the fascination of a newborn?

His attention on the coffin, Thassarian waited on an answer.

* * *

He lay in a light doze at the edge of the pond, half-listening to the glottal chirrups the sprite darters made. Night and day reigned eternal, locked in an eclipse that was neither lunar nor solar. A cape of endless galaxies cast the area in a kaleidoscope of colors so outlandish they could not be captured in mortal tongues, shifting from one pattern to another like an aurora.

A single drop of water fought for balance on the very tip of a broad green leaf. It bowed to and fro to the whim of gravity, up and down and down and up like a boat on a choppy sea. Then, as if it could no longer maintain its weight, the little droplet slid from its perch.

It plunged into the pond with a splash.

A single eye shot to wakefulness. Its gaze fell upon the water's surface. Ripples scattered in all directions, riding the vibrations in unhurried strides. The waves closest to him breached the bank and broke against his foreleg.

All the water was absorbed into the grass save for a few beads, and they glinted beneath the starlight like a rainbow of tiny jewels. They were arranged in a random pattern.

He studied these droplets for a very long time, sizing up their colors, their shapes, which angle the light was hitting them and how it was reflected. A low, ponderous hum rumbled deep within his breast.

Suddenly both eyes widened and lost focus. He sat, entranced, and stayed that way for an untold length of time.

When he came to, he bared his teeth in the facsimile of a grin.

He wondered if the bronze saw it, too.

* * *

The first breath hit hard and fast, and there was a sound like thunder.

It jolted her awake, eyes snapping open to a world filled with light. It blinded her and hurt to see, and she wanted to cry out but no sound issued forth from her throat.

The second breath came and seized her lungs in a viselike grip. Then there was a third breath, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and each breath was like a wildfire that could not be tamed.

Her vision swam, her head churned in an unstable current. Shaking hands reached up and grabbed it. Her heart hammered with enough force to split it. A pounding ache formed between her eyes, laced its phantom digits over hers and pressed down, down, _down_.

Her feet gave out and she tumbled to the floor, forehead crashing against cool rough stone.

"Mato!"

Her mouth fell open, issuing a choked gasp.

Images surged through her mind at an alarming speed she could not match, and she was barely able to tell what she was seeing. People, places, objects, scenery flew by with the flickering of an old film reel or the crisp crackling of pages from a flipbook. Voices dredged to the surface from an unfathomable morass, old and young and male and female, blending together into a jumbled ramble. Sounds rose and fell in waves: high-top sneakers squeaking against a hardwood floor; basketballs bouncing and sailing through the hoop with a breath of displaced air; the opening and closing of doors signaling passengers who were boarding or disembarking their trains; bones breaking in halves and quarters as they bounced down concrete steps—

_"Mato!"_

Her body didn't feel right. It felt as though her bones and innards and the blood in her veins were not enough to make her whole. She needed to spread her arms, flex her muscles, stretch her fingertips and reach for something to fill that space. She feared her skin would slough off and she would float away into an unimaginable unknown and be swallowed up by it.

"Keep her steady, keep her steady—!"

"Step back, step back! Give her some space—!"

"Don't drop her—!"

"Mato...wake up, we made it—!"

Though her stomach didn't growl she was very hungry, and though her mouth wasn't dry she was very thirsty. Strangely, on some deep, primal level, she didn't desire food or drink. She wanted something to draw on, something to suck on and build castles and citadels and fortresses from it.

A part of her prodded the back of her mind with the weight of a giant's finger. A hole opened, its torn flaps fluttering outward.

She reached into it.

The next thing she knew, the world caved in.


	4. Record 02: The Knights of the Ebon Hold

**Record #02: The Knights of the Ebon Hold**

There was no time to run a quick scan on his systems. Not yet.

Ron's optics, however, barely discernible among his impenetrably black body, did scan the chamber they manifested in. Data scrolled through a window on his HUD which he minimized. He opened a clean document and implemented the arithmetic into a blueprint of the Ebon Hold's layout, color coding and naming points of interest he would divulge into: the ports connected to both levels of the necropolis and the outside world, the hearths he deciphered as the _runeforges_ located on the second floor designated as the _Heart of Acherus_, the _Hall of Command_ where the Highlord operated his knights and watched them hone their dark abilities.

Their presence also extended below them, in the ruins of towns that bore the scars of battle and hellfire. Since there were no rooms to house all the death knights, it appeared they had established ramshackle but simple colonies on top of the scorched land. Although he wondered how they had managed to not succumb to starvation; the area was hardly fertile let alone arable, and what little wildlife signatures he detected indicated various stages of infection. He hoped this wasn't a bad omen and that the rest of the Plaguelands wasn't in the same condition. Next to attending to Mato's soul-to-body integration and her mental faculties, and whatever the Highlord had in store for her, feeding her was a priority.

But all of that would be dealt with later.

The grip on his tail went slack and then a _thump_ of flesh on stone followed by a pained gasp.

"Mato!" He pushed all his muscles into the body he was currently in (how long had it been since he had used it?) to loop around and under the girl, lifting her off the floor. He grunted; she was trembling so violently it made it difficult to push her up. Damn the need for conservation, he wanted to switch to standard mode and take her to the nearest colony to rest...except he couldn't. Switching between modes expended energy and, depending on the output, required time to recharge, and standby was considered to be the most vulnerable of the three.

What he didn't understand was the epileptic state Mato was in. Didn't the Supervisor and the Salesclerks say it would be hours before the ego suppressants wore off? Shouldn't this be happening after they had gotten settled together? _I don't need this right now!_

He couldn't support her anymore. He collapsed and was crushed against the floor by the weight on top of him. She whimpered and twitched, hot breath rolling over his scales. _"Mato! Wake up, we made it!"_

There was a pitter-patter of footsteps, and then relief as the burden was removed. A furry face came into view and asked in a raspy contralto, "Are you alright, Keyholder?" Ron got a good look at her: the triangular ears, the square snout and black nose, the hale-blue eyes glowing within the recesses of her horned helm. His systems identified her as a _worgen_ and a _death knight_.

"Yeah," he said. "Never better." He yelped as a paw plucked him off the ground and set him upright on the base of his tail. "Oh, uh, thanks much." The worgen nodded.

A commotion was going on behind him. A menagerie of voices intermingling in the static-charged atmosphere: "Keep her steady, keep her steady!—Step back, step back, give her some space!—don't drop her—!"

Two men were standing on either side of Mato, an apish-looking brute rippling with muscle and a massive creature whose ice blue skin shone in the torchlight; these he labeled as orc and draenei respectively. Each knight was holding an arm in their paw-like grips. That seemed to have an effect on her for she stood limp and the spasms trailed off like the final note at the end of a song. Ron sighed. Well, that was a good sign…at least on the outside.

Although it would have made him more at ease if the death knights weren't surrounding her like a pack of predators. Their weapons were free, vicious blades gleaming sharpness as fierce as snowcapped mountain peaks. The way they stood betrayed an intensity being restrained by force of will, as if one wrong move on her part would send them into a berserk frenzy. It would make sense for them to behave as such if something had interfered with their crossing the gap, but they had encountered nothing of the sort Supervisor Ouru hinted at; and if indeed something else had attached itself to them and announced its presence the knights would've made quick work of them the moment they manifested.

They wouldn't know what to do if he told them what was really happening to her, and violence was not the cure. No, this was what the kinband referred to as, simply put, total recall. Whereas humans saw it as being in possession of eidetic memory his brothers and sisters recognized it as falling into a trance by enabling parts of the core that, depending on what they were doing (such as trans-astral meditations or physical exercise regimens), could increase their productions and operate like so until the user manually disabled them. Whereas human brains consumed only twenty percent of the energy in their bodies, souls had the propensity to eat up to more than seventy percent of their input; the remaining thirty was a reserve that for some was password-encrypted and required administration access to tap into. How much energy one used played a factor into how long the time to fully recharge would be.

He slithered between a pair of death knights and stopped before the two giants, saying, "Hey, I appreciate the gesture but you can put her down now. She's not gonna do anything."

"We do not answer to you, snake," the draenei rumbled. His words were punctuated by a low echo reminiscent to the subsonic chimes announcing arrivals in the Threshold waiting room.

"Aye," agreed the orc. "You want us to let go, you ask the Highlord. Although I doubt he'll give you the okay; we need to examine her."

"Examine? Examine her for what?"

"For corruption," added the draenei, staring down his aquiline nose at Mato.

"_Corruption_?" he sputtered. "She's been checked over a dozen times by the Board of Directors, and we got through the gap just fine. There's nothing wrong with her!"

"That is not for you to decide."

"It is. I'm her owner!"

"Yes, but _we_ are her benefactors. And in the Heart of Acherus, our word is law."A human male came to stand beside him. Like the rest of his band he was outfitted in dark plated armor, bearing grinning skulls on pauldrons and whorled bone on elbow joints and kneecaps. He was without helm. His face was lined, his skin pale as dry clay, and his feathery hair silver as a spider's web speckled in dew. He regarded Ron with the methodical severity of one who is studying the innards of a dissected animal. "If we say she shall live she shall live, but if we say she shall die then by all means she shall die…and there is nothing you can do to stop that."

"You're insane!"

"This is merely a precaution, Keyholder. Hundreds of Black Shooters have failed to cross your Threshold, and hundreds more have either succumbed to their madness, died due to their integration crashing, or gotten carelessly killed in combat when they were far from prepared from leaving the Enclave. Most of the poor fools even managed to get themselves assimilated, thinking they would 'go to heaven' to escape this 'nightmare', this 'eternity of slavery'. They thought wrong. If you listen closely, you can hear them: ranting and raving to be seen, begging for release, crying for loved ones they will never see again. You know about it, I can see it in your eyes. That is not the death we want to wish upon this girl."

"But you're okay with killing her if she shows any signs of this 'corruption'," Ron scoffed sardonically. "You're a hypocrite. You're all hypocrites! Look at her. Does she look like someone who's sick out of her mind? There's no need for violence. If you'll let me I can check her vitals. It'll only take a few seconds, maybe a couple minutes at the most."

"That won't be necessary," said the man, unfazed.

"Then what do you suggest I do, step back and watch you handle her like a piece of equipment?"

"If it means having your permission, then yes, that is exactly what we will do."

"No! Fuck that! Mato doesn't need another evaluation, and whatever I say regarding her is final!" And then a curious thing happened, and it came and went so quickly the warning alerts didn't pop up until his underbelly ached with the grave caress of frost. He was pinned to the floor, his body wrapped in chains of ice. "What the—?"

"I grow weary of your incessant whining," spoke the voice of another man. A pair of death knights, the female worgen and a squat burly dwarf, parted aside for him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, encased in black plated armor from head to toe. From this angle Ron could make out the grinning skulls engraved on the polished greaves, the sharp jut of featherless wings striking the curve of his boots. Dread light burned coldly from the eye-slits in his helmet; it was the color of stars on a cloudless night. "Know this, Keyholder: this is how we operate. We have performed this procedure since the first Black Shooter, Ram, successfully manifested from the Void…and it was because of our negligence and lack of supervision that nearly did us in. You say this girl has been appraised by the Board and crossed the gap unhindered; memory loss aside that would make her clean, yes?"

"Of course it would—"

"No," Highlord Mograine said with firm conviction. "No, it wouldn't. All the firewalls and defense protocols in the universe wouldn't stop the things that lurk within the Great Dark. The girl, Mato, comes from an entirely different reality that follows an entirely different set of laws and physics than our own, and you, despite being a creature of the Void, have never ventured beyond the comfort of the planes. Your Supervisor would agree as well, but he didn't want you to worry. He knew how badly you wanted to leave the Nestlands, how desperate you were to buy the girl off so she wouldn't be _recycled_. He feared for her, too. He was fully aware of the danger he was putting you both in, given the state of the planar defenses.

"Nobody is ever truly safe from the Void. All it takes is something to slip through the cracks. A demon, a virus, it doesn't matter. What does matter," and the fire within his helm dimmed when his gaze fell upon Mato, "is determining her fate. Thassarian! Get to work."

"At once, Milord." He stepped between the Keyholder and the death knights holding up the girl and raised a hand.

Ron struggled against the chains. He managed to crane his neck at an angle to see what Thassarian was about to do. "You keep your hands off her, you rat bastard! I'll have the Board on you for breach of contract if you so much as touch a hair out of place!"

The orc cackled. The draenei scoffed and shook his head. Thassarian paused, turned and glared balefully down at Ron. "Do you want her to suffer?"

"Wh-What? No I don't want her to suffer! I wouldn't have bought her if I didn't care for her!"

"Then I will promise you this: should she show any signs of corruption, I will grant her a swift, painless death. At the very least she will not have a body to supersede the limitations of necrotic manifestation and jeopardize the safety of this world."

"How bad can it get?"

"That's what we're going to find out." Thassarian showed him the flat of the sword, its runes simmering with a faint, blue fire. "Now, if you'll allow me, I should like to get this over with, so be a good snake and be quiet. I require absolute concentration."

"Just be gentle." _And be quick about it_, he wanted to add, but he could tell in the way this man carried himself that that wasn't going to happen, not even if he pleaded with him. "The integration process should be handled very delicately."

Thassarian nodded, putting a hand under Mato's chin. "So we have seen," he said. Although it was more to himself than to anyone else in his vicinity, Ron's receptors picked it up as if he were right next to him. "Imbued with the power of gods…and yet…so fragile." He lifted her head and looked deep into her eyes, falling, searching.

* * *

"Wake up," he crooned softly, sweetly. "Wake up, and be the rock that holds the tide at bay. Be the tide that washes over everything and all your dreams will come true." He flicked the dark pebble and it soared across the body of water. It landed in the very center but did not sink as it should have wont to. On the surface it sat, not floating but perfectly still, like an unscrupulous paperweight on a desk.

Then, without warning, the pond erupted. Geysers rocketed heavenward in cliff-breaking waves, foamy tendrils stretching as high as they could to graze the star-speckled ceiling. They rose and they climbed and they were all but wiggling their fingers for the eclipse that was just within their reach, but upon some unheard call they pulled back and gallons upon gallons of water fell, producing a fine misty rain.

He let his gaze follow the cascade of bubbles floating down toward the pond. Like any ordinary bubble they were transparent and exactly the same size, but that was where the similarities ended. Inside each bubble was a vast wealth of knowledge, culminated by eons of lifetimes tempered in the cold fires of a cosmic forge. Each contained its own history, its own people, its own gods, its own beginnings and endings.

They were echoes of universes close and far removed, forever intertwined and forever apart. All for him to study, learn, and adapt.

One by one the bubbles graced the surface. Ripple after ripple sped away and overlapped, giving the pond a shimmery effect reminiscent of sunlight at dusk.

A low, sonorous hum rumbled deep within his throat. He wondered. Which path would she take? What would she do in this strange new world? How would she influence the future of Azeroth, as it headed towards a new age?

Whatever she did it would have an impact, and it would further cement the Black Shooters' place in a timeline forever altered.

The thought of the effects she would have on certain people made him chuckle. This was going to be very interesting, and he was looking forward to the changes that would be sown.

* * *

Ron wasn't alerted of the sudden spike in activity until it quite literally blew up in Thassarian's face.

He had been keeping an eye on the man, scanning his bodily functions for the telltale sign he was going back on his word, but so far he had stayed true. He wasn't sure how he could be probing Mato for this 'corruption'; maybe it had something to do with him being a death knight? The Acherus knights were people who had been killed in the campaign against the former Lich King and his mighty army of undead the Scourge and resurrected to be bound to and served at his will. Having experienced rebirth (albeit a twisted version), perhaps what Thassarian was employing was similar to that of his own quick scan.

He considered asking him how it worked when he felt the energy build to a climax. He looked over at Mato. Her mouth hung slack-jawed, her chest hitching convulsively as her lungs continued to fill her with life-giving oxygen. Her face still retained the unfocused sleepiness from the sedatives.

Her nexus, on the other hand—

_What's going on?_

A scan probed at her systems and right away knew what was wrong.

He shouted at Thassarian and the two death knights, "Get away from her!"

The human flinched, torn from his gravity of his task, and turned on him with exasperation. "Did you not hear me? I said to be quiet—"

"It's not safe! She's about to—!" He was cut short by a startling sound, a sound akin to the popping of a balloon; and then Thassarian was tumbling across the floor, his sword sent flying from his grasp and spinning across the tiles. A second pop blew the orc and draenei away as they let go of Mato at the last second.

The girl lurched forward a couple steps, but she caught herself and rose shakily to her full height. Arms stretched out at her sides, fingers curling, flexing. Tendrils of smoky purple energy spread from the tips and encased her lanky form like an angel's halo. Her hair lifted as if borne on the wind and the locks shadowing her eyes parted, revealing a pair of rings glowing in pools of ocean blue.

The death knights tensed. The worgen unsheathed two wicked-looking shortswords blazed in runes.

Highlord Mograine held her back with the toss of his arm. "Stand back!" And that was the most he got out before the chamber erupted into chaos. A third, louder pop resulted in a cacophonic bang and as if on cue the energy surrounding Mato surged in all directions. The shockwave slammed into the group and blew them against the walls.

The chains of ice holding Ron down didn't stand a chance. They burst into pieces and he was carried head over tail, crashing into a pillar that splintered from the impact. Lying limp on the ground, his nexus abuzz with pain and his gravitational axis wavering off-kilter, his HUD flooded with security warnings. All he could see was the blaring red of the pop-ups and the words flashing urgently and repeatedly:

**WARNING: INPUT OVERLOAD IMMINENT**

**WARNING: INPUT OVERLOAD IMMINENT**

**WARNING: INPUT OVERLOAD IMMINENT**

It was replaced by a new message, sending a jolt of alarm through his core:

**WARNING: OUTPUT DATA CONVERSION WINDOW HAS BEEN DETECTED!**

And it duplicated into more windows as he finished closing the input overload warnings.

"Shut up," he growled, forcing the axis to right itself as he rose onto his belly. "Just…shut…up!"

"What the hell is that?!" An elf yelled over the howl of gathering energy. "Is…Is that a portal?" Ron followed his gaze to the ceiling and swore. Above Mato the fabric of reality twisted itself into the shape of a whirlpool. Like a funnel giving birth to a tornado the tiles slid apart and were sucked into the lowering vortex, and in the midst of this turned into particles of light. The downdraft graced her skin and was absorbed, each darkening the aura by a shade.

"You've never seen this before?" Ron hollered back. "From the other Black Shooters?"

"No! None of them did! What is that?"

"It's a conversion window! She's torn open a plug in her nexus that allows her to draw in Void energy. She's breaking down solid matter and converting it into Void so she can destroy her vessel and manifest properly! The longer she's in that state" of total recall "the more she'll take from your base until there's nothing left!"

Ron saw the elf's mouth form the words 'conversion window' only for his eyes to light up in recognition, recalling some forgotten memory buried in the dusts of his mind. He was about to speak when the snake cut him off with a terse "Tell me later! I gotta fix this!" Then he plunged headfirst into the tornado, redirecting all energy output into muscles straining against the magnetic force pushing him back.

He had made some significant progress across the chamber when Mato's head turned his way. Those ringed eyes, an encoded glyph identifying her as a soul altered by the Threshold, locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile. She raised an outstretched hand, from which a tendril of Void energy diverged from the vortex and formed a ball crackling with power, and took aim. Ron could not stop to dodge its path nor change directions on a whim due to the pushback emanating from her, the eye of the window, but even if he was able to he would not have wholly escaped the damaged left behind. The ball struck the tile in front of him with such force he went flying through the cracked pillar.

Slowly, shakily, Ron emerged from the dent he made. He looked at the ceiling. The window continued to expand, growing like a cancer in the brain. He hissed vehemently in the tongue of the Nests. This girl was going to wind up assimilated and she would never know it, and what would become of him? He had no intention of returning to the Threshold, no intention to participate in pointless border wars and assassinations in the name of the Mad God, no intention to go back and purchase another human girl when he couldn't even control this one. What kind of a Keyholder would that make him other than a failure? All that mattered right now was getting to Mato and repair the plug…but how, without the hindrance of the vortex and her enhanced senses?

Pressed flat against the wall and righting his gravitational axis once more, watching the hole devour the ceiling and climb the stones consisting of the Hold's spires, Ron saw something that sparked his nexus. The death knights were stuck fast and firm to the chamber's corners, even the mighty Highlord Darion Mograine…except Thassarian was on the floor, crawling on his hands and knees, fingers digging into the grooves as he pushed toward a girl lost in her trance…and her back to him.

The sight presented Ron the perfect plan.

"Pick me up!" he shouted at the elf.

"What?"

"Pick me up…and throw me at her! As hard as you can! Can you stand up?"

The elf put his hands against the wall, got on one knee and tried to haul his bulk up. He rose to an awkward, chair-like sitting position before a fresh pulse from the vortex shoved him back on his rump. "No good! I can barely brace myself!"

"Let me try, Lord Deathweaver." The female worgen, the one who helped him off the ground after the manifest, shifted into view at his periphery. Her dark robes snapped behind her like slavering jaws, her hood thrown back to reveal a waterfall of black hair. Long, sharp claws gripped the tile grooves like fishing hooks caught in a fish's mouth. "Throw him to the moons I will, if I must."

Ron had never felt more elated than he did at this moment. "You think you can do it?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't think I could try."

"Do it anyway!" said the elf named Deathweaver. "Do it, Zaku, before that girl has a chance to convert us!"

"As you wish," and with the grace of a hawk swooping in on an unsuspecting rodent she scooped Ron under her paw and into the air. She gauged the distance between here and the center of the chamber where Mato stood; she stared back at the worgen, warily, intensely, waiting for her to make the first move. Unbeknownst to her Thassarian inched closer, nearly there. "Where is this plug you need to fix?"

"It's in her nexus," said Ron. "There's a mark on the back of her neck that connects to all the circuits in her systems. I need you to throw me right onto her so I can apply a hotfix! You get all that?"

"I learned from the other Keyholders, who else?" Zaku kept her gaze locked on Mato, but in her periphery she saw Thassarian stop and give her a stern look that bespoke a silent message: _focus on the girl, wait on my command_. She would've nodded, but given the situation she did not lest she betray his position. Hefting Ron to her shoulder like a football, she growled in his audio receptors, "Right on the neck, you say?"

"Right on the neck," he agreed. "Make it count!"

Zaku nodded. She breathed in, held it, let it go and put a hind paw forward. No sooner did the nails on it click into the tile did Mato raise her hand and form another Void bolt.

Another step. The ball took shape, its master aim.

Zaku paused, tightened her claws on Ron, and reared her arm back.

The energy around Mato flared, popped and hissed like a firecracker. The bolt slowed, a sparse calm before the storm unleashed its burdensome torrent, and shot away as a bullet is propelled through the barrel of a gun.

It never reached them. It didn't so much as leave her hand, because at the moment the worgen motioned to attack Thassarian pounced. He jumped to his feet and snatched Mato by the wrists, smothered the premature but angry _pop!_ in his giant mitt as he yanked her arms behind her back. In the eye of the window he stood fast, battered but unmoved like a statue. Mato, however, was pulled out of her dreamlike reverie by this sudden action; the shock painted on her face was bright enough to outshine the lantern in a lighthouse. "Now!" he roared. "Do it now!"

Zaku didn't wait for him to finish. She threw all her weight forward and with a grunt launched Ron at the Black Shooter. Ron opened his mouth as wide as he was able and, just before he hit his target, ejected the pair of fangs from their sheath and sank them into the pale crook of her neck.

The scream that rocked his receptors transported him back to a time when he was not Ron the Keyholder but Ron the hatchling, Not-Ron with the long and unpronounceable name, a time when he and his brothers and sisters were participating in drills in their first ever border war. The sirens posted along the Spines of the Everwyrm ridge would sing their harrowed wails, shaking the sleeping soldiers beneath the scales from their burrows to _rise, hustle those lazy tails, get into formation and bear your nose for the Hoodmaster!_ There was never a day when a hatchling could catch his breath, oh no, lest he be caught beneath the master's shadow and endure one hundred jets from the Ashspitters before the entire squad. When you heard those high-pitched wails, you knew you had to move; and as fast as you can, because oversleeping a drill dealt a greater punishment than falling behind in exercises or back-talking a Hoodmaster.

That was how Mato gave voice to her pain, the fear that she would die before she could be wholly sated and stretch her flimsy limbs to the fullest. Thassarian, given his close proximity, shrank at the volume but did not let go as she shook and fought and sobbed. Neither did Ron, as the nanites worked their way through the maze of circuits and applied their salve to the ruptured plug. _It's almost over,_ he wanted to assure her as he patched through the variable empathic system and observed the download's progress. _I know it hurts. Just a few more seconds and I'll be done. It's going to be okay._

As he held on Mato's struggles grew less frantic then sluggish and feeble. The vortex unwound itself and the energies that had been absorbed into her skin emerged like paperclips attracted to a magnet. The window reformatted them into their original stone form and dissipated into vaporous sparks of antimatter with an electric hum only Ron could hear; the sounds of the planes and beyond were inaudible let alone translatable to the normal mortal ear.

A popup alerted Ron that the hotfix had successfully patched the plug. It had also debugged a grid computer that housed dormant self-repair nanites and antivirus software (like the ego suppressants) for primary, tertiary and reserve systems for the nexus and core. The report noted the grid had gotten corrupted during the manifestation, thus forcing her systems to switch to total recall to prevent further damage. Carefully removing his fangs from the access code and refolding them, he breathed a great sigh of relief. _It could've been worse. A lot worse. We got lucky, thank the Architects. _"Let her go, I got her," he told Thassarian. He expected the death knight to refuse him as the orc and draenei did, but instead he nodded and, hesitantly, released his grip and stepped away.

Mato dropped to her knees like a heavy, wet sack. Ron caught her from falling forward and pushed her back straight. Her head and shoulders slouched forward but she did not fall. The Keyholder curled around her and gently touched his blunt nose to her forehead. All systems were quiet. Quiet but in the green. Good.

"Mato," he said quietly. "Can you hear me? Wake up, kiddo. We made it." He flicked his tongue out, a quick one-two-three, to let her know he was there. "You're safe now."

The breath in her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, but she did not feel the thunderous pain that was driving its spike deeper with each intake. Her mind stirred from its fitful sleep and received the call registering from its receptors, familiar but without a face to match it. Eyes as blue as the sky at dawn revealed themselves from the shade of dark lashes, no longer ringed but pure as can be, and beheld a curious black snake of considerable length staring back at her. At least she thought it…no, he did, but a blink of his eyes proved that they were there. They were a shade of darkest blue, almost black, like the sky at dusk, and they touched her heart in a way that made her…she searched for the words…as one with the utter quiet of a world at the edge of eternity.

_Beautiful,_ rang the single word. _So very…blue._

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm Ron," said the snake. "It's not my real name, but it's much easier to pronounce than the garbled mess I'm proudly known. Let's stick with that. There's a lot of stuff I want to fill you in on, but now's not a good time to overwhelm you with data that'll cause you to crash and reboot. I need to get you someplace nice and quiet so you can recuperate for a bit before I can start integrating your soul with your body. Is that alright with you, Mato?"

The girl blinked owlishly at Ron then furrowed her brows. That word…'Mato'…there was meaning behind it, something important. Saying it in her mind, _Mato_; testing the syllables like one would when tasting a new recipe, _Ma-to_…it resonated within her. Rippled like water, its surface disturbed by the cannonball impact a stone carried upon its descent. But how? Why? Why did it ring so sweetly? "What is Mato?" No, that didn't sound right. It was not a matter of what but "Who is Mato?"

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. It happened so fast it made him flinch.

Mato gasped as something cold and sharp and dreadful nipped the back of her neck and drew her fully awake. She looked up and saw the Highlord Darion Mograine standing above her, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a massive, glowing sword dripping with ice.


End file.
